Madmen
by Angelada
Summary: The ghost of a smile reached her dry lips, and she suddenly wished she had tried to talk to the man she'd slaughtered before she charged in like a bloodthirsty madwoman. "I guess we're all madmen of the Reach, deep down." And indeed she was starting to believe it; she was talking to a corpse, after all.


"I yield! Please don't hurt me!" He cried, voice gruff.

"For the last time, stop whining! I told you to get out of here!" The exasperated Breton shouted, eyes narrowed and teeth set hard in her jaw. The stupid Forsworn continued to stay uselessly still, body shaking, murmuring pleads for mercy and breathing heavily. The moment the shaking stopped, the man she had just beaten into submission cried out and tried to ram into her, knife at the ready. The Breton woman cringed in apprehension, wishing she had stuck to jobs of clearing bandits' hideout and taking down rampaging giants.

Not that the bandits were any better than the Forsworn, but at least she had no problem with killing them as much as she had with killing her fellow Bretons, wild as their demeanour usually was. It just never felt right.

Had she known that the way towards Dead Crone Rock was infested with Bretons, that may or may not be just two septims short of a pint of ale, she would have told that Silus Vesuius to go fetch the pieces of his beloved dagger himself. Of course the silly man and his unhealthy obsession with Mehrunes Dagon would get her into the worst possible situation; what else could she expect from a Daedric Prince of Destruction? She couldn't even remember why she agreed to such a ludicrous quest as this, even with the money the Imperial mage promised. The man gave her the creeps.

Agh, never mind that, her fur-covered friend just made a pass at her, steel dagger coming dangerously close to her midsection. She moved out of the way just in time, but she was wise enough not to count on luck for the next time he hit, the Forsworn was not likely to miss twice, not if she allowed herself to get distracted again.

"Focus, Riane…" She chastised herself under her breath, adjusting her grip on her ebony sword. She'd bested this man twice in battle already, and twice she lacked the intern strength to kill him, but that mattered little to him, apparently. She did not once doubt that he would kill her, given the chance.

With this in mind, and greatly fed up with both her kinsman and herself for so uselessly postponing the inevitable, she carefully poisoned her blade and furrowed her brows. Her lips drawn tight into a straight line, she charged with a Shout of "_Tiid_", praying to the Divines for forgiveness, for she knew well what she had done to learn that word of power. While all around her stilled, her sword went through the soft furs and warm flesh unhinged, as the woman put all her weight into the sudden attack, and even before time started flowing naturally again, she knew she had ended him.

The Shout's spell disappeared in a blur, all the dull noises and colours returned with a bit too much force and bluntness, the wind rushed in Riane's ears with the same speed blood rushed to her head. Even so, and with the sudden dizziness taking over her, she could just make out the broken man's last words from between the horrible sounds of him dying, choking on his own blood.

"We…are..ghh…the son-ns…daughters…of the Reach..." And then he coughed and sharply drew his last breath, face contorted in repulsion and dismay. For the longest of time, Riane starred at the fallen Breton's glassy eyes, and for the life of her, she could not help but think those last words an accusation.

It was ridiculous, really, the man had been mad and feral, more than willing to run her through, but Y'ffre damn it all, it's always hard killing your kind, be they mad or not. And while she did not think herself as strict and proud of blood as Nords or Altmer, and never had she felt her race all that much of a defining aspect of her person, she will always feel guilt for killing Bretons.

This particular kill has proved even harder to consent to, and for a very simply reason. That Forsworn had looked a lot like how she remembered her father, and it had hit a chord, pulling at her long-buried heart. Who would've guessed that she still had that old thing?

How silly, to almost let herself get stabbed because of a small resembling between the living and the dead. Well, the dead and the dead, she could say now.

The ghost of a smile reached her dry lips, and she suddenly wished she had tried to talk to the man she'd slaughtered before she charged in like a bloodthirsty madwoman. "I guess we're all madmen of the Reach, deep down." And indeed she was starting to believe it; she was talking to a corpse, after all.

Fighting through Hag Rock Redoubt soon forced her to forget any and all thought, though, for she only had enough thinking time to respond to the various attacks of the furious Forsworn, of traditional and magical kind both. For people that were considerate primitives, they sure had a talent for making war, she'd give them that. Even if it was not exactly her style, Riane had been compelled more than once to sneak past the sentries, in order to avoid having a whole village of fur-clad warriors on her back.

Once safely inside Dead Crone Rock, and by safely she meant in one piece and with plenty of health potions at hand, the Breton woman quietly studied her surroundings, pocketing the Grand Soul Gem sitting innocently on a stone table beside a brunch of wild strawberries and sneaking up the stairs. All seemed quiet for the moment, and she allowed herself a moment to search the chest and burial urns she found for any gold. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear footsteps, but they were far quite away for the moment. Just to be safe, she sat herself onto the stairs, her back to the wall, away from any prying eyes.

The lighting was good enough, and the air smelled only moderately of blood, so she pulled out the book that put-to-no-good Imperial had given her in Dawnstar and read who she was looking her. She was supposed to have done that before going here, but she had yet to read the tattered journal Vesuius has entrusted her with, more than a week ago. She had headed for this place only because it was the only location she'd remembered the mage telling her about.

Squishing her eyes to make out the faded and occasionally burnt text, she was sickened to read her name in the old book.

"_Drascua, leader of the Forsworn of Dead Crone Rock, and 8th to bear the pommel of Mehrunes' Razor. Daughter of Cairine, daughter of Edana, daughter of Malvina, daughter of Muriel, daughter of **Riane**, daughter of Cayleigh, daughter of Sorcha."_

_Of course_ her name would be linked to the witch she was supposed to slay. _Of course_ she would have to be remembered that the people she was running her poisoned blade through were her kin. _Of course_ the awful feeling of guilt in her stomach would become worse.

In times like this she wished she had been born a Khajit.

Refusing to ponder on the subject anymore, because she'd always been warned that "distraction is deadlier than any knife", she reset her helmet and tightened the leather straps of her gauntlets, determined not to let anything bother her on her way to her target.

It would prove easier said than done.

The journey to the keeper of the pommel of Mehrunes' Razor was guarded not only by Forsworn, but also by traps, not necessary clever as they were deadly. She'd stumbled upon three enemies, and they were absurdly easy to elude, even with her modest skills at sneaking, but one of the traps she'd missed, and even after all her effort, she'd had to bloody her hands.

None of the struggle she'd had to face with the Forsworn compared with the Hagraven, Drascua. The witch was nothing short of difficult, and this time she wasn't even holding back.

It took many sword hits, a few spells and a three-worded shout to take down the harpy, and all that while avoiding getting burnt by magical processes. The smell of blood and burnt tissue and feathers was making it hard to breath in the Hagraven's refuge, and the incinerated body was not a pretty sight by any means. Looking down towards the valley, pommel secured and undamaged in her pack, Riane could only dread fighting her way out of the redoubt. The Forsworn have most definitely heard the fighting and shouting, and were out for blood.

"May Stendarr have mercy on our souls, my brothers, for I fear what will become of all of us."


End file.
